Once Upon a Time in Vermont
by The Purple Pineapple
Summary: What if their happy ending was just a beginning? They meet again on a chilly January day in Vermont, determined to give their dream a try. But the thing about reality is - it's so much more wonderful, yet so much more complicated than dreams. She doesn't


**I published a part of this on Tubmlr as a one-shot, but then decided I wanted to explore Olitz, the show Olitz, if they got their dream ending. They're just such complicated individuals, that I think it would be fascinating to see them try to navigate a relationship, after everything they've been through - after all the hurt, and the lies and betrayals and after dreaming and idealizing the relationship for years. There'll be fluff, but you already know me well enough to know that angst is my drug.**

* * *

She drives past it one day. It's late June and the sun is just about to set. The air is colored by warmth and swarms of fireflies illuminate the winding road. She drives past it, and she thinks – _it could be home_.

She drives past it and she cries.

She stops at the diner down the road. She orders coffee. They bring her pie and a napkin to wipe away her tears.

It's like heaven, the softness of apples and the lightness of the thick cream; the warmth that spreads through her mouth, down her throat and settles in her stomach. In the very pit of her stomach. The place usually occupied permanently by guilt; occupied by missing him. Both eternally settled, so omnipresent that she barely notices anymore – the only reminder an occasional pang of sharp pain in her chest. The doctor told her – _it's stress_; she knows it's melancholy, being awakened by faded memories.

_You were right. This is the best pie. _

She types it quickly, then presses cancel. She hasn't seen him in a year. She saves it. One day, this too, will be a faded memory. She leaves a brand new twenty-dollar bill on the table, courtesy of inflation, and leaves.

She pauses at the door – she can see it: the four kids, running around here on Sundays; she can see herself telling them to behave; she can see_ him_, winking, telling them it's OK. She can see _him_ carrying their daughter, light auburn curls and cerulean eyes, in his strong arms, as the delicate hands hold on to his collar. She can see their son, on his first day of school, biting into a slice of bread, with butter and jam – the red stuck to outer corners of his full lips. His mother's lips. And she can imagine _him_, talking to her perturbing belly, as two babies kick; she can imagine _him_ kissing it, running his hand absentmindedly along the side of it. She can imagine herself, kissing _him_, burying her head into his chest, deep into his chest – until it's resting on his heart; the rhythm of their life resounding though her tired body. She can imagine a life. Anniversaries and arguments, babies, children, daughters and sons, with her smile and his eyes; she can imagine the kisses, and the soft whispers, the tender love and the moment of oblivion when they shatter over the edge, as one.

She can imagine. But she doesn't. Instead she drives. Hoping that one day, dreams will become memories.

/

And she drives past the board with the large black letters again, two years later. It's late summer and the sky is already dark, the heavy clouds covering the distant stars. She hasn't spoken to him in three years. She hasn't seen him in three years. She's thought of him, dreamt of him, missed him – every day since. She doesn't realize where she's going, until she's making a turn by the willow whose branches disappear under the surface of the emerald lake, and driving past the old wooden bench. The sound of crickets echoes through the hollow silence. It's dark. Dark and quiet. It seems too big now, maybe because it's swallowed by the night; like a dream corroded by time. As she drives by, despondence fills her up.

He's divorced now. But still not free. Maybe, maybe he'll never be.

She doesn't cry. She doesn't stop for pie.

No, she has to meet a client.

/

She hasn't seen him in four years, three months, three weeks and five days.

She turns the radio up to drown out her rambling thoughts. Forever incoherent, forever racing; forever running away from her – to him. And she smiles as the soft bass vibrates through the speakers.

She remembers a night, years ago, when he was still governor and she still believed in moral dichotomies; she remembers dancing, in a room, in a provincial hotel, safe in his arms, protected by the cloak of darkness. She remembers the texture of his hair, and how broad his shoulders were; how familiar every inch of his body felt. She remembers the guilt; but more than that she remembers the happiness. She didn't know, not then that that's what she felt. But years later, as she drives down the familiar path, she knows – she's never been happier than that night, dancing away from time, lost in the haven of his arms.

She knows, _he_ is what happiness feels like.

There's a thin coating of ice on the road, invisible under the pale winter light, so she drives slowly; her hand rhythmically tapping the wheel. The lake is frozen, the emerald almost black, the ice a tender silver. And the willow, it seems serene – the whole tree covered in silver linings.

She can see the house. There's no car. There's no one. And her heart sinks, as the familiar pain tightens her chest.

She's early. She'll wait.

She parks the car in the driveway, and the pebbles rumble under the brand new tires. She gets out, the cool air burning her barely exposed skin. She takes her phone out, her hands trembling; not from cold, but from the nervousness that's settling in. No missed calls. No new messages.

She checks her emails, but there's nothing. Nothing from him. She can feel her throat closing.

Instinctually, she opens the one saved email she has – the one that's survived phone changes, and resets and binge-email-clearings. There's a photo of the familiar house. Taken in summertime. It was newer then, the color more vibrant, the windows clean, the door inviting. It was different then – then it was a dream, now, now it's real. A little bit shabby, and a little bit broken, a little bit worn out, but a possibility.

_January, 21__st__ 2017. 4 p.m. I'll be here. Waiting._

She closes the email. 3:58. She opens the car door and grabs a pack of cigarettes from her bag. The frisk winter air puts out the flame. Once, twice, but she tries again. And finally, she inhales and the calm spreads through her veins.

"I didn't know you smoke." He yells from the side of the road. She looks at him, incredulously. "The car broke down. So I decided to walk from the diner." He says with a nonchalant smile. She sees Tom, walking behind him, and he nods curtly. She's quiet. Lost for words. She's imagined this moment for years. Gone over it in her head, thought about what he'd say and what she'd say – but now, seeing him – with a few more lines than she remembers, darker circles under his eyes, and a few extra grey hairs – he still looks the same – he still has the same effect. "I wanted to come early. Make sure I was here first. In case you… decided to drive by."

He's standing in front of her now and she's motionless, stuck in place, her eyes taking him in; her mouth opening, but no sounds leave it.

"Livvie…" and his knuckles brush against her cheek. And she leans into the tender touch; into the warmth, the familiarity.

"We can't just… We can't just pick up where we left off. I don't even, I don't even know where we left off. Too much has happened, too many… we hurt each other too many times." She says it all in one breath; her cheek resting in the palm of his hand. Her eyes closed – she can't get lost in his again.

"You showed up." He says with a smile; it's still crooked, still perfect.

"We can't just… This isn't a dream. We can't just move in here, and get married and have four kids, and make jam. We can't-"

"I agree." He says softly, and she opens her eyes to look at him, fear hiding behind the thick lashes. "Four kids is way too many. I don't want to be 90 when the youngest graduates. So one, one or two. And of course we can't just move in here – this place is a dump, no one's stepped inside for years. As for getting married, I was thinking April, May if you really want to wait."

"We can't just… This isn't a fairytale."

"No." And he looks at her. "This is real."

And he slowly lowers his head, brushing his nose lightly against hers. His lips touch hers, and it feels like the first time – new and unfamiliar; tender and delicate. Their creases and crevices falling in sink, as their hands hold on to the burning flesh. Her tongue plays with his bottom lip, and he opens his mouth; and it's the familiar taste, the familiar warmth. She tilts her head and loses her hands in his hair, as he wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her close, as close as she can be.

They break apart breathlessly.

She opens her eyes, slowly. "Hi."

"Hi." And he smiles. "I brought jam."

"You did not," she says through a chuckle, as she tilts her head, her eyes daring him. And he pulls out a small jar from his coat pocket.

"It's homemade." She just stares at the hexagonal glass filled with dark red mass. She takes it from his hand, and lets hers linger – she lets her fingers feel the warmth of his, she lets her palm take in the contours of his knuckles – she lets herself linger, because she can. "Tom's wife made it."

And she finally stops looking at the jam and looks up at him, "Tom's married?"

"Has been. Twenty years this year."

"Wow." It all seems surreal. The house that suddenly became a home; he, standing in front of her with that same look in his eye, the same twinkle, the same fire, like before – like he's seeing her for the very first time, except lust has long been replaced by love; the kisses that feel the same, or at least like what she remembers – like peace, and heaven and calm; kisses that feel like dreams; and he still smells the same: like cinnamon and coffee and wood crackling in the fireplace. And Tom, the person who knew the most intimate, the most personal thing about her – she knew nothing about. She never asked, she never thought she had the right to ask. And it stings, the pangs of the familiar guilt.

"Yeah, wow." But he's not talking about Tom, no. He's in awe. Of her, of the moment. She can tell; she always could. He runs his thumb along her cheekbone, and her smile follows the same path, stretching across her face. And he's smiling too. Their smiles, they're no longer timed; no longer a shield against the inevitable; no longer covering up the fears that bubble under the surface. Their smiles are, finally, as real as their love.

"Can we go inside?" She asks shyly. This, all of it, unfamiliar: the couple thing.

"Yeah." He says, and he takes a step back, turning on his heel to look at the house he's spent what feels like a lifetime dreaming about. She opens the car door quickly and drops the jar of homemade jam on to the car seat. The first one, she thinks, and she smiles. She catches up to him, and he takes her hand in his; their fingers interlaced lazily. He looks at her, with almost child-like-glee, his smile is really a grin.

"What?" She asks as she hangs her head low, a curtain of hair covering her blushing cheeks.

"Nothing…" he says as they climb up the few wooden stairs and step on to the porch. "I just… I get to hold your hand, in broad daylight, outside. I can hold your hand anytime." And his smile fades, as he looks away.

"Hey… Fitz… hey. No hiding." And she turns his head slowly towards her, her palm cradling his cheek. "We're not doing this. We're not spending today regretting. We've had years for that. Years of sleepless nights, years of doubt, years of guilt, and regret that never vanes. Not today." And her thumb gently wipes away the tear hanging from the corner of his eye. And he closes his eyes, his lashes tickling the sensitive skin of her fingertips. She kisses him – a kiss on his right eyelid, as she props herself on her toes, her hand clutching on to his collar; and then another one, his left eye; then cheeks, as she leans her forehead against his. He breathes out and she breathes in. "Let's go see our house." And she feels him smile against her lips.

The door opens with a creak, and the old wooden floorboards dance under their feet. They're standing in a bright rectangle, courtesy of the nearest window, their shadows stretched out before them, tall and slender, otherworldly almost. She swings their arms and the shadows sway, perfectly in sync. He brings their hands to his lips and kisses her knuckles softly. She looks up, into the beams of light and the unsettled dust that dances through the damp air. It whirls, in small circular patterns, falling slowly to the ground. It's just dust, and just pale winter sunlight, but the moment – it feels magical.

The soft tug breaks her out, and she follows him through the large door, into a bright room. A crystal chandelier hangs from the high ceiling, strands of glass beads hanging from the broken strings. They make the faintest of sounds as they move in the no-longer perfectly still air. Faded wallpapers are coving the tall walls, ripped at the seams, crumpled towards the top.

"This could be the kitchen." He says as he lets go of her hand, and moves towards the center of the room. She watches on, enchanted. "We'd put the counters along this wall, over here," and he points to the wall that's facing the back garden. "And then we could have a kitchen island here. And a small table next to the windows," and he walks over to the wall facing the driveway, "For breakfasts. It's facing east so it has great morning light. We can have coffee and share papers, and… What?" He asks, as he notices her biting down on her trembling lip.

"You've thought about this." Her voice breaks, revealing the abyss of hurt under the surface, "You thought about the house, and the mornings and the life that we could have… you thought about this. Everything."

He crosses to where she's standing, a small smile forming on his lips. "It's what got me through the last eight years."

And she wants to tell him that she too dreamt of the house that would feel like home; of children, arguments and anniversaries, birthdays and Christmases; that she too, dreamt of a life. But she doesn't. Because there's still a part of her, a part of her that's afraid to believe that they can be this happy. A part of her, forever afraid to _be_ happy. A part of her that's waiting for the wrath of gods to descend on them; for the Universe to once again, one last time, break them apart. So instead, she stays quiet. Instead she kisses him. And they both know what the kiss means, and it stings, burns their lips; but for now, even that is enough. Because even the sting, it's better than the numbness that suffocates.

He takes her up the large staircase, with wrought iron railings. And he shows her the rooms. The one that could be Karen's, because there's a fireplace, and she'd like that. And Gerry's has a balcony that is facing the garden. Teddy's could be in the small tower with a spiral staircase – because he, he will spend a lot of time there; every other weekend and all major holidays. And she smiles as they look around the spacious room, as he describes the rocket-ship bed, and the space posters, and lava lamps and airplane models. She smiles, but she's terrified. The thing about reality – it's complicated – it's kids who don't know her, it's arguments that hurt and that sting; it's forgotten anniversaries, missed birthdays and exhausting Christmases. It's a life, not a fairy tale; it's not perfect.

She pulls her hand out of his and walks over the round window. The sun is starting the set and she looks at the pale red as it disappears in the black lake.

"Liv?" He knows this, recognizes it. It's happened too many times before. He loves her, but the thing is, he no longer trusts her; he no longer trusts her love for him.

"Have you told them? About us?" She asks, her eyes still focused on the lake.

"I have." And she nods her head, her back still turned to him. "An edited version."

"Do they know that I was your miss…" she stops herself; she knows how much he hates it, almost as much as she, "do they know about the affair?"

"They do." He wants to touch her. He knows that her anxiety, it would dissipate with a single touch; with his fingertips gliding along her silky skin. But it would be unfair; he finally understands; it would be unfair. So, instead, he gives her space.

"Do they know about this? Now?" She asks, turning around, leaning her back against the window.

"No." And she looks at the floor. "Not because it's a secret." He ads quickly and she looks up, relieved. It breaks his heart, that still, after all these years she thinks that. "But, because… I wasn't sure you'd come." And it breaks her heart, that still, after all these years he thinks that. "They'll like you Liv. They will." And she's not sure, if he's trying to convince her, or himself.

"OK." She says softly, as she pushes herself off the windowsill and walks over to him. She kisses him, threading her fingers though his hair lightly. She pulls away, resting her hands at the base of her neck, his forehead on hers. "I'm hungry. Let's go eat."

He nods and reaches for her hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing the inside of her palm. They head down, the bustle of their movement echoing through the house.

"Diner?" He asks, as he closes the door behind them. "They have the best apple pie."

"I know." She says smiling.

"You went there without me?" He asks faux-offended.

"Well, I had to see for myself. The best apple pie – I couldn't wait."

"Where are the keys?" He asks as they approach the car.

"I'm driving." She retorts with a sly grin.

"But I haven't driven in eight years." He says with a pout. "Tom won't let me."

"Well, you're not practicing on me and my rental."

"Please…" And he pulls her back, flush against his body. He kisses her, his tongue playing with the seam of her lips, as his hands roam the familiar body. Their tongues attack and retreat, lost in the endless dance of senses. They break apart, breathlessly, looking into the familiar eyes; the eyes that haunted their dreams; their reality.

"Still a no, mister." And she slips into the driver's seat, chuckling as he drags his feet.

"You still do that thing." He says as he drops his hand on her thigh.

"What thing?" She asks, as she drives down the familiar path.

"The thing you do. With your teeth. You bite on my bottom lip lightly." She blushes, looks down. He squeezes her thigh. "I love it." He says with a wide smile. And she thinks to herself, she could get used to this, so easily, to seeing that smile every day for the rest of her life. She could; _she wants to_.

They order pie. Just one. Her fork disappears in the crust as it slices through the soft apples. She dips it in cream and brings it to his lips. His mouth misses the fork and it hits the tip of his nose, cream smeared on his cheek. She laughs uncontrollably.

They make a memory. They're no longer fading. They're just beginning.

* * *

**Let me know what you thought and if you'd be interested in reading more. There might be some flashbacks, but it will mostly be Olitz trying to navigate this strange, new world of relationships. So yeah - let me read your thoughts :) **


End file.
